CHAPTER XIII.
MR. WILLIAM BELTON TAKES A WALK IN THE COUNTRY.
Clara Amedroz had made one great mistake about her cousin, WillBelton, when she came to the conclusion that she might accept hisproffered friendship without any apprehension that the friend wouldbecome a lover; and she made another, equally great, when sheconvinced herself that his love had been as short-lived as it hadbeen eager. Throughout his journey back to Plaistow, he had thoughtof nothing else but his love, and had resolved to persevere, tellinghimself sometimes that he might perhaps be successful, and feelingsure at other times that he would encounter renewed sorrow andpermanent disappointment,--but equally resolved in either mood thathe would persevere. Not to persevere in pursuit of any desiredobject,--let the object be what it might,--was, to his thinking,unmanly, weak, and destructive of self-respect. He would sometimessay of himself, joking with other men, that if he did not succeed inthis or that thing, he could never speak to himself again. To no mandid he talk of his love in such a strain as this; but there was awoman to whom he spoke of it; and though he could not joke on such amatter, the purport of what he said showed the same feeling. To befinally rejected, and to put up with such rejection, would make himalmost contemptible in his own eyes.
This woman was his sister, Mary Belton. Something has been alreadysaid of this lady, which the reader may perhaps remember. She wasa year or two older than her brother, with whom she always lived,but she had none of those properties of youth which belonged to himin such abundance. She was, indeed, a poor cripple, unable to walkbeyond the limits of her own garden, feeble in health, dwarfed instature, robbed of all the ordinary enjoyments of life by physicaldeficiencies, which made even the task of living a burden to her. Toeat was a pain, or at best a trouble. Sleep would not comfort her inbed, and weariness during the day made it necessary that the hourspassed in bed should be very long. She was one of those whose lot inlife drives us to marvel at the inequalities of human destiny, and toinquire curiously within ourselves whether future compensation is tobe given.
It is said of those who are small and crooked-backed in their bodies,that their minds are equally cross-grained and their tempers asungainly as their stature. But no one had ever said this of MaryBelton. Her friends, indeed, were very few in number; but those whoknew her well loved her as they knew her, and there were three orfour persons in the world who were ready at all times to swear thatshe was faultless. It was the great happiness of her life that amongthose three or four her own brother was the foremost. Will Belton'slove for his sister amounted almost to veneration, and his devotionto her was so great, that in all the affairs of his life he wasprepared to make her comfort one of his first considerations. Andshe, knowing this, had come to fear that she might be an embargo onhis prosperity, and a stumbling-block in the way of his success. Ithad occurred to her that he would have married earlier in life ifshe had not been, as it were, in his way; and she had threatened himplayfully,--for she could be playful,--that she would leave him if hedid not soon bring a mistress home to Plaistow Hall. "I will go touncle Robert," she had said. Now uncle Robert was the clergyman inLincolnshire of whom mention has been made, and he was among thosetwo or three who believed in Mary Belton with an implicit faith,--aswas also his wife. "I will go to uncle Robert, Will, and then youwill be driven to get a wife."
"If my sister ever leaves my house, whether there be a wife in it ornot," Will had answered, "I will never put trust in any woman again."
Plaistow Manor-house or Hall was a fine brick mansion, built inthe latter days of Tudor house architecture, with many gables andcountless high chimneys,--very picturesque to the eye, but not inall respects comfortable as are the modern houses of the well-to-dosquirearchy of England. And, indeed, it was subject to certainobjectionable characteristics which in some degree justified thescorn which Mr. Amedroz intended to throw upon it when he declaredit to be a farmhouse. The gardens belonging to it were large andexcellent; but they did not surround it, and allowed the farmappurtenances to come close up to it on two sides. The door whichshould have been the front door, opening from the largest room in thehouse, which had been the hall and which was now the kitchen, leddirectly into the farmyard. From the further end of this farm-yard amagnificent avenue of elms stretched across the home pasture down toa hedge which crossed it at the bottom. That there had been a roadthrough the rows of trees,--or, in other words, that there had intruth been an avenue to the house on that side,--was, of course,certain. But now there was no vestige of such road, and the frontentrance to Plaistow Hall was by a little path across the garden froma modern road which had been made to run cruelly near to the house.Such was Plaistow Hall, and such was its mistress. Of the master, thereader, I hope, already knows so much as to need no furtherdescription.
As Belton drove himself home from the railway station late on thatAugust night, he made up his mind that he would tell his sister allhis story about Clara Amedroz. She had ever wished that he shouldmarry, and now he had made his attempt. Little as had been heropportunity of learning the ways of men and women from experience insociety, she had always seemed to him to know exactly what every oneshould do in every position of life. And she would be tender withhim, giving him comfort even if she could not give him hope. MoreoverMary might be trusted with his secret; for Belton felt, as men alwaysdo feel, a great repugnance to have it supposed that his suit to awoman had been rejected. Women, when they have loved in vain, oftenalmost wish that their misfortune should be known. They love totalk about their wounds mystically,--telling their own tales underfeigned names, and extracting something of a bitter sweetnessout of the sadness of their own romance. But a man, when he hasbeen rejected,--rejected with a finality that is acknowledged byhimself,--is unwilling to speak or hear a word upon the subject,and would willingly wash the episode out from his heart if it werepossible.
But not on that his first night would he begin to speak of ClaraAmedroz. He would not let his sister believe that his heart was toofull of the subject to allow of his thinking of other matters. Marywas still up, waiting for him when he arrived, with tea, and cream,and fruit ready for him. "Oh, Mary!" he said, "why are you not inbed? You know that I would have come to you up-stairs." She excusedherself, smiling, declaring that she could not deny herself thepleasure of being with him for half an hour on his first return fromhis travels. "Of course I want to know what they are like," she said.
"He is a nice-looking old man," said Will, "and she is a nice-lookingyoung woman."
"That is graphic and short, at any rate."
"And he is weak and silly, but she is strong and--and--and--"
"Not silly also, I hope?"
"Anything but that. I should say she is very clever."
"I'm afraid you don't like her, Will."
"Yes, I do."
"Really?"
"Yes; really."
"And did she take your coming well?"
"Very well. I think she is much obliged to me for going."
"And Mr. Amedroz?"
"He liked my coming too,--very much."
"What;--after that cold letter?"
"Yes, indeed. I shall explain it all by degrees. I have taken a leaseof all the land, and I'm to go back at Christmas; and as to the oldgentleman,--he'd have me live there altogether if I would."
"Why, Will?"
"Is it not odd? I'm so glad I didn't make up my mind not to go when Igot that letter. And yet I don't know." These last words he addedslowly, and in a low voice, and Mary at once knew that everything wasnot quite as it ought to be.
"Is there anything wrong, Will?"
"No, nothing wrong; that is to say, there is nothing to make meregret that I went. I think I did some good to them."
"It was to do good to them that you went there."
"They wanted to have some one near them who could be to them as oneof their own family. He is too old,--too much worn out to be capableof managing things; and the people there were, of course, robbinghim. I think I have put a stop to that."
"And you are to go again at Christmas?"
"Yes; they can do without me at my uncle's, and you will be there. Ihave taken the land, and already bought some of the stock for it, andam going to buy more."
"I hope you won't lose money, Will."
"No;--not ultimately, that is. I shall get the place in goodcondition, and I shall have paid myself when he goes, in that way,if in no other. Besides, what's a little money? I owe it to them forrobbing her of her inheritance."
"You do not rob her, Will."
"It is hard upon her, though."
"Does she feel it hard?"
"Whatever may be her feelings on such a matter, she is a woman muchtoo proud to show them."
"I wish I knew whether you liked her or not."
"I do like her,--I love her better than any one in the world; bettereven than you, Mary; for I have asked her to be my wife."
"Oh, Will!"
"And she has refused me. Now you know the whole of it,--the wholehistory of what I have done while I have been away." And he stoodup before her, with his thumbs thrust into the arm-holes of hiswaistcoat, with something serious and almost solemn in his gait, inspite of a smile which played about his mouth.
"Oh, Will!"
"I meant to have told you, of course, Mary,--to have told youeverything; but I did not mean to tell it to-night; only it hassomehow fallen from me. Out of the full heart the mouth speaks, theysay."
"I never can like her if she refuses your love."
"Why not? That is unlike you, Mary. Why should she be bound to loveme because I love her?"
"Is there any one else, Will?"
"How can I tell? I did not ask her. I would not have asked her forthe world, though I would have given the world to know."
"And she is so very beautiful?"
"Beautiful! It isn't that so much;--though she is beautiful.But,--but,--I can't tell you why,--but she is the only girl thatI ever saw who would suit me for a wife. Oh, dear!"
"My own Will!"
"But I'm not going to keep you up all night, Mary. And I'll tell yousomething else; I'm not going to break my heart for love. And I'lltell you something else again; I'm not going to give it up yet. Ibelieve I've been a fool. Indeed, I know I've been a fool. I wentabout it just as if I were buying a horse, and had told the sellerthat that was my price,--he might take it or leave it. What right hadI to suppose that any girl was to be had in that way; much less sucha girl as Clara Amedroz?"
"It would have been a great match for her."
"I'm not so sure of that, Mary. Her education has been different frommine, and it may well be that she should marry above me. But I swearI will not speak another word to you to-night. To-morrow, if you'rewell enough, I'll talk to you all day." Soon after that he did gether to go up to her room, though, of course, he broke that oath ofhis as to not speaking another word. After that he walked out bymoonlight round the house, wandering about the garden and farmyard,and down through the avenue, having in his own mind some pretence ofthe watchfulness of ownership, but thinking little of his propertyand much of his love. Here was a thing that he desired with all hisheart, but it seemed to be out of his reach,--absolutely out of hisreach. He was sick and weary with a feeling of longing,--sick withthat covetousness wherewith Ahab coveted the vineyard of Naboth. Whatwas the world to him if he could not have this thing on which he hadset his heart? He had told his sister that he would not break hisheart; and so much, he did not doubt, would be true. A man or womanwith a broken heart was in his estimation a man or woman who shoulddie of love; and he did not look for such a fate as that. But heexperienced the palpable misery of a craving emptiness within hisbreast, and did believe of himself that he never could again be incomfort unless he could succeed with Clara Amedroz. He stood leaningagainst one of the trees, striking his hands together, and angry withhimself at the weakness which had reduced him to such a state. Whatcould any man be worth who was so little master of himself as he hadnow become?
After awhile he made his way back through the farmyard, and in at thekitchen door, which he locked and bolted; and then, throwing himselfdown into a wooden arm-chair which always stood there, in the cornerof the huge hearth, he took a short pipe from the mantelpiece, filledit with tobacco, and lighting it almost unconsciously, began to smokewith vehemence. Plaistow Hall was already odious to him, and helonged to be back at Belton, which he had left only that morning.Yes, on that very morning she had brought to him his coffee, lookingsweetly into his face,--so sweetly as she ministered to him. And hemight then well have said one word more in pleading his suit, if hehad not been too awkward to know what that word should be. And was itnot his own awkwardness that had brought him to this state of misery?What right had he to suppose that any girl should fall in love withsuch a one as he at first sight,--without a moment's notice to herown heart? And then, when he had her there, almost in his arms, whyhad he let her go without kissing her? It seemed to him now that ifhe might have once kissed her, even that would have been a comfort tohim in his present affliction. "D----tion!" he said at last, as hejumped to his feet and kicked the chair on one side, and threw thepipe among the ashes. I trust it will be understood that he addressedhimself, and not his lady-love in this uncivil way,--"D----tion!"Then when the chair had been well kicked out of his way, he tookhimself up to bed. I wonder whether Clara's heart would have beenhardened or softened towards him had she heard the oath, andunderstood all the thoughts and motives which had produced it.
On the next morning poor Mary Belton was too ill to come down-stairs;and as her brother spent his whole day out upon the farm, remainingamong reapers and wheat stacks till nine o'clock in the evening,nothing was said about Clara on that day. Then there came a Sunday,and it was a matter of course that the subject of which they bothwere thinking should be discussed. Will went to church, and, as wastheir custom on Sundays, they dined immediately on his return. Then,as the afternoon was very warm, he took her out to a favourite seatshe had in the garden, and it became impossible that they couldlonger abstain.
"And you really mean to go again at Christmas?" she asked.
"Certainly I shall;--I promised."
"Then I am sure you will."
"And I must go from time to time because of the land I have taken.Indeed there seems to be an understanding that I am to manage theproperty for Mr. Amedroz."
"And does she wish you to go?"
"Yes,--she says so."
"Girls, I believe, think sometimes that men are indifferent in theirlove. They suppose that a man can forget it at once when he is notaccepted, and that things can go on just as before."
"I suppose she thinks so of me," said Belton wofully.
"She must either think that, or else be willing to give herself thechance of learning to like you better."
"There's nothing of that, I'm sure. She's as true as steel."
"But she would hardly want you to go there unless she thought youmight overcome either your love or her indifference. She would notwish you to be there that you might be miserable."
"Before I had asked her to be my wife I had promised to be herbrother. And so I will, if she should ever want a brother. I am notgoing to desert her because she will not do what I want her to do,or be what I want her to be. She understands that. There is to be noquarrel between us."
"But she would be heartless if she were to encourage you to be withher simply for the assistance you may give her, knowing at the sametime that you could not be happy in her presence."
"She is not heartless."
"Then she must suppose that you are."
"I dare say she doesn't think that I care much about it. When I toldher, I did it all of a heap, you see; and I fancy she thought I wasjust mad at the time."
"And did you speak about it again?"
"No; not a word. I shouldn't wonder if she hadn't forgotten it beforeI went away."
"That would be impossible."
"You wouldn't say so if you knew how it was done. It was all over inhalf an hour;
and she had given me such an answer that I thought Ihad no right to say anything more about it. The morning when I lefther she did seem to be kinder."
"I wish I knew whether she cares for any one else."
"Ah! I so often think of that. But I couldn't ask her, you know. Ihad no right to pry into her secrets. When I came away, she got up tosee me off; and I almost felt tempted to carry her into the gig anddrive her off."
"I don't think that would have done, Will."
"I don't suppose anything will do. We all know what happens to thechild who cries for the top brick of the chimney. The child has todo without it. The child goes to bed and forgets it; but I go tobed,--and can't forget it."
"My poor Will!"
Then he got up and shook himself, and stalked about thegarden,--always keeping within a few yards of his sister'schair,--and carried on a strong battle within his breast, strugglingto get the better of the weakness which his love produced, thoughresolved that the love itself should be maintained.
"I wish it wasn't Sunday," he said at last, "because then I could goand do something. If I thought that no one would see me, I'd fill adung-cart or two, even though it is Sunday. I'll tell you what;--I'llgo and take a walk as far as Denvir Sluice; and I'll be back to tea.You won't mind?"
"Denvir Sluice is eight miles off."
"Exactly,--I'll be there and back in something over three hours."
"But, Will,--there's a broiling sun."
"It will do me good. Anything that will take something out of me iswhat I want. I know I ought to stay and read to you; but I couldn'tdo it. I've got the fidgets inside, if you know what that means. Tohave the big hay-rick on fire, or something of that sort, is whatwould do me most good."
Then he started, and did walk to Denvir Sluice and back in threehours. The road from Plaistow Hall to Denvir Sluice was not in itselfinteresting. It ran through a perfectly flat country, without a tree.For the greater part of the way it was constructed on the top of agreat bank by the side of a broad dike, and for five miles its coursewas straight as a line. A country walk less picturesque could hardlybe found in England. The road, too, was very dusty, and the sunwas hot above Belton's head as he walked. But nevertheless, hepersevered, going on till he struck his stick against the waterfallwhich was called Denvir Sluice, and then returned,--not onceslackening his pace, and doing the whole distance at a rate somewhatabove five miles an hour. They used to say in the nursery that coldpudding is good to settle a man's love; but the receipt which Beltontried was a walk of sixteen miles, along a dusty road, after dinner,in the middle of an August day.
I think it did him some good. When he got back he took a long draughtof home-brewed beer, and then went up-stairs to dress himself.
"What a state you are in," Mary said to him when he showed himselffor a moment in the sitting-room.
"I did it from milestone to milestone in eleven minutes, backwardsand forwards, all along the five-mile reach."
Then Mary knew from his answer that the exercise had been of serviceto him, perceiving that he had been able to take an interest in hisown prowess as a walker.
"I only hope you won't have a fever," she said.
"The people who stand still are they who get fevers," he answered."Hard work never does harm to any one. If John Bowden would walk hisfive miles an hour on a Sunday afternoon he wouldn't have the gout sooften."
John Bowden was a neighbour in the next parish, and Mary wasdelighted to find that her brother could take a pride in hisperformance.
By degrees Miss Belton began to know with some accuracy the way inwhich Will had managed his affairs at Belton Castle, and was enabledto give him salutary advice.
"You see, Will," she said, "ladies are different from men in this,that they cannot allow themselves to be in love so suddenly."
"I don't see how a person is to help it. It isn't like jumping into ariver, which a person can do or not, just as he pleases."
"But I fancy it is something like jumping into a river, and that aperson can help it. What the person can't help is being in when theplunge has once been made."
"No, by George! There's no getting out of that river."
"And ladies don't take the plunge till they've had time to think whatmay come after it. Perhaps you were a little too sudden with ourcousin Clara?"
"Of course I was. Of course I was a fool, and a brute too."
"I know you were not a brute, and I don't think you were a fool; butyet you were too sudden. You see a lady cannot always make up hermind to love a man, merely because she is asked--all in a moment. Sheshould have a little time to think about it before she is called uponfor an answer."
"And I didn't give her two minutes."
"You never do give two minutes to anyone;--do you, Will? But you'llbe back there at Christmas, and then she will have had time to turnyou and it over in her mind."
"And you think that I may have a chance?"
"Certainty you may have a chance."
"Although she was so sure about it?"
"She spoke of her own mind and her own heart as she knew them then.But it depends chiefly on this, Will,--whether there is any one else.For anything we know, she may be engaged now."
"Of course she may." Then Belton speculated on the extremeprobability of such a contingency; arguing within his own heart thatof course every unmarried man who might see Clara would want to marryher, and that there could not but be some one whom even she would beable to love.
When he had been home about a fortnight, there came a letter to himfrom Clara, which was a great treasure to him. In truth, it simplytold him of the completion of the cattle-shed, of her father'shealth, and of the milk which the little cow gave; but she signedherself his affectionate cousin, and the letter was very gratifyingto him. There were two lines of a postscript, which could not butflatter him:--"Papa is so anxious for Christmas, that you may be hereagain;--and so, indeed, am I also." Of course it will be understoodthat this was written before Clara's visit to Perivale, and beforeMrs. Winterfield's death. Indeed, much happened in Clara's historybetween the writing of that letter and Will Belton's winter visit tothe Castle.
But Christmas came at last, all too slowly for Will;--and he startedon his journey. On this occasion he arranged to stay a week inLondon, having a lawyer there whom he desired to see; and thinking,perhaps, that a short time spent among the theatres might assist himin his love troubles.
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